Boredom
by Saccharinum
Summary: Boredom (ˈbɔːdəm) - noun. The state of feeling bored, an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do, and lacks interest in their surroundings. So what happens if you cross that with a certain doctor suffering from amnesia?
1. Chapter 1 - Boredom

Bored (ˈbɔːd) - _adjective. _Weary from dullness, an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do, unoccupied, and lacks interest in their surroundings.

* * *

Moriarty was bored.

Very bored.

Sebastian was away in France, so he had to entertain himself for the time being. Taking a small sip from the steaming cup of tea, he watch the world go by from the safety of the café.

Dull.

His previous obsession, a certain Sherlock Holmes, had thrown himself off the building and died soon after. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hard on him after all, he would have been able to play around a little longer. He felt his mood soured, he had also clearly overestimated Sherlock's abilities, he was merely a little puppet tangled in his own strings.

Pathetic.

Although a few months had since passed, the entire country was still abuzz with the consulting detective's death. Many still believed that Sherlock was genuine, and that he was still alive, and they created groups, online and offline, trading rumours, or to discuss theories of how Sherlock could survive the fall, ideas that their little brains have come with.

He had attended an offline meeting once before, for the fun of it, and he wasn't sure what he was feeling annoyed that the people just can't accept the fact that Sherlock had died, or amused at their ideas, most of them were just plain fictional and downright crazy. Really, Doctors and some wibbly wobbly time-y wimey stuff. Some of them can't differentiate the line between fiction and reality.

Ridiculous.

The media was the one feeding the people with ideas, the main reason of why people were starting to doubt that Sherlock was a fraud, so much that some people had even started an ongoing petition to clear Sherlock's name. Moriarty had to wonder if Mycroft was behind it. A clever move, but all too late. He highly doubt Sherlock would just pop out from his grave and solve cases again. There are live shows where experts debate on the_ truth_, and there's even a new series that features Sherlock's past clients.

Which was airing right now.

'–And this was how the case of the elephant in the room was solved. Thank you very much, Madam.'

'Don't mention it.'

'What was your first reaction when you heard that Sherlock had died?'

'I thought it was a crude joke, but when the news officially announced it– '

Moriarty tuned out whatever the women on screen was saying, going back to people watching instead. The entire room was silence throughout the entire episode, without as much as a single whisper, all eyes glued to the screen. The stunned silence was broken when the show ended, and the entire café burst into excited chatters.

'I heard Sherlock actually– '

'You can get dead bodies– '

'… See? It's possible this way–'

'Bungee rope, seriously?'

Moriarty rubbed his temple, feeling a surge of annoyance coming up. How would it take for them to move on? It's always Sherlock this and Sherlock that, the same meaning in different words, can't they talk about something else?

Annoying. Annoying. ANNOYING.

The bell hanging on the door trilled, signalling the arrival of new customers. Moriarty watch the trio as they walked over at the table to his right, obstructing his view of the telly (and the majority of the customers). The noise that they made completely covered the noise pollution from the other side of the room.

'Finally, it's over!'

'Night shift wasn't as easy as you thought it was, huh lad? Ain't easy for a little kid like you.'

'I'm an adult!'

'With that squeaky voice of yours?

'Hey!'

'Stop teasing him –,' The other guy cut in, raising his hand to signal the waitress.

'See?!'

'– Tea is more important,' He nodded to the waitress, 'Two cups of tea, and a glass of milk. Thank you.'

'Milk? What?'

'A kid needs nutrition to grow.'

'Stop treating me like a child! I'm an adult like the both of you!'

'Oh really?'

'Tell me that when you finish your internship.'

'I can handle patients without you old geezer, like… that time where a man with his head bashed in!'

'Please, it was not "bashed in", and we were there, kiddo.'

'He still hit his head pretty hard though.'

'Very hard you mean, I suspect some foul play at work,' He glanced at the other doctor, 'But we can't confirm anything till he wakes up.'

'His brain activity has spike up for this couple of days, he should regain conscious soon.'

'Can he even remember? Chances of him getting amnesia is high, I'm not even sure if he could remember his own name.'

'I knew him in med school, he's quite the nice guy, and his results are always above average, one of the few top scorers. Pity that he might lose that too.'

'But maybe forgetting might do him some good. You know, the war and stuff.'

'Don't leave me out of the conversation, you idiots!'

Interesting. Interesting. Interesting.

Could they be talking about what he is hoping it to be?

'Double whammy huh? His best friend just had to go and killed himself, and this happens.'

Oh my.

'Don't ignore me!'

* * *

'Well, time to close up now,' The café owner said to himself, flipping the "Open!" sign at the door. He look around, the café was almost empty now, except for an old lady sitting at the table next to the window, and a homeless man sleeping near the fireplace. He walked over to the sleeping man, planning to wake him up.

But before he could touch him, the supposedly sleeping man drew back sharply, almost knocking a table down in the process. Bright silvery-green eyes glared at him, the man immediately drew the hood up and covered his dirt-smeared face, hurrying out of the door.

The shop keeper watch the man leave, wondering who this strange person was. He was rather used to homeless people coming in for the fireplace due the cold weather, but that was a new face. He paused, could it be the hermit? He had heard some gossip from some his customers just now, about a green-eyed hermit that gives answers to any questions or problems you have, for a price, that is. He shrugged, well, that was none of his business. Come on! The shop isn't going to close by itself!

He walked over to where the old lady was sitting, she was looking out of the window, eyes trained on something he couldn't see. He coughed, gaining her attention, and quietly informed her that they are closing up. The old lady sipped the last of her now cold tea, and apologies, with a warm smile that did not quite reach her eyes. With a sigh, she slowly manoeuvre towards the entrance on unsteady legs, carefully keeping her balance with a well-wore cane.

The old lady took a step into the crisp, cold air, a stark contrast against the warm café, 'Dear me, such chilly wind!' The wind carried her voice into the warm café, 'Rain be upon us soon,' She ambled down the road, 'Me joints be aching again.' She sighed and shook her head.

'I guess a trip to the hospital will be necessary.'

* * *

Postscript

Hiya! Thank you for reading my first story! At least, under this name. I have many handles, but this is the one I'm currently using~

I sincerely apologise if some parts don't make sense. I can't seem to put my muddled thoughts into written words, it doesn't flow as smooth as I wanted it to be. But I'll do my best! Umm... Feel free to give any constructive criticism!

I'll try updating on every 29th, thank you so much again!


	2. Chapter 2 - Amnesia

Amnesia (amˈniːzɪə) – _noun. _A partial or total loss of memory.

* * *

He wasn't sure how many times he had re-read the exact same sentence.

Hundred and four times? Or perhaps it was a hundred and five?

Maybe a medical encyclopaedia would be more useful.

Sitting in the midst of half-opened dictionaries and medical textbooks, the man closed the book. With a sigh, he tossed it over his shoulders, the book hit the wall with a soft "thud", before gravity pulled it down to join its companions.

He pulled out a thick encyclopaedia, 'Well, this looks promising,' He spoke aloud.

He quickly found what he was looking for, 'Let's see, amnesia refers to the loss of memory. Memory loss may result from…' He jumped over the technical details, 'Amnesia can be a symptom of several neurodegenerative diseases; however…'

Same meaning, but in different words.

He threw the book backwards, knocking over a precariously balanced stack of books.

Useless.

'Oh my, did a tornado occurred while I was gone?'

'M-Moriarty?'

His mood took a hundred and eighty degree turn.

'Yours truly~'

'Moriarty!'

Research forgotten, he dropped the book he just picked up onto the carpeted floor. He quickly closed the distance between them, tackling Moriarty with a bone crushing hug.

Moriarty returned the hug, but it became clear that he wasn't letting go any time soon. He clear his throat quietly, 'John.'

'Hmm? Ah,' He immediately let go, 'I sincerely apologise.'

Moriarty smiled fondly, 'It's alright,' It was like interacting with a child, except-

'I was worried when you didn't visited me after so long,' John twiddled with his fingers, and in a small voice, he added, 'I thought something bad might have happened.'

His brain stopped processing for a second, the world seem to have been frozen in place. Someone, someone was actually, genuinely worried about him? He suddenly found everything funny, 'Nothing will ever happen to me, Johnny boy~' He wiped a tear from his right eye, 'But I do admit, going off suddenly and not sending any updates was selfish of me.'

He made a dramatic bow, 'And I do apologise for that~'

'If you're truly apologetic,' John made a great show of pondering, 'Could I get a fresh body soon?'

Moriarty smiled, 'Of course, my dear.' He checked his pocket watch, 'On a related note, since I'm back, shall we move on with our lesson?' It wasn't a question, 'I'll give you a quarter of an hour to get ready.'

John only smiled back at him, 'I'll be ready under ten,' The sparkle in his eyes was obvious even to a blind man.

'Good, I'll see you at the same room.' He pocketed his watch, 'I'll take my leave then.'

Moriarty close the door softly, he could almost hear the muffled slams of John opening and closing the doors to the linked rooms. He glance at the three maids standing guard at the door.

'Marielle, I assume the room is ready?'

'Mariette, prepare me a fine specimen.'

'Marianne, clean up this area.'

'Yes sir.' The trio said in chorus.

'Dismissed.'

His eyes trained on their retreating backs, until they each of them are but a speck of colour. Right, he should be heading off soon.

* * *

The door creaked when he pushed it open, and with no surprise, John was already waiting inside. He looked up from cleaning his scalpel, and gave Moriarty a grin.

Moriarty returned the smile, as he pushed the operating table towards the centre of the room, inspecting the squirming human in front of him.

'Let's start the lesson now, shall we?'

* * *

Postscript

John used Tackle! It's super effective!

John used Charm! It's super effective!

Moriarty is unable to battle, John wins-

Ahem... Hello everyone! How have you been?

Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm well aware that February doesn't have a 29th, I have thought about posting it on the 28th, but, it was barely half-completed. I truly apologise! I have been pretty busy this month, club activities, exchange students, and stuff~

I guess I'll try to update on the end of every month!

* * *

Fun fact!

When a person cries and the first drop of tears comes from the right eye, it's happiness. But when the first roll is from the left, it's pain.


	3. Chapter 3 - Home

Home (hōm) – _noun._ A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin, a place where one lives; a residence, an environment offering security and happiness.

* * *

"_ANOTHER VICTIM FOUND GRUESOMELY TORN APART",_ read the front page headline of a newspaper.

'You have been busy, haven't you?'

'Quite the busy little bee.'

The man folds down the newspaper, revealing a middle age man.

'Hmm.'

'Anyway, you're safe now.' The man took a sip from his cup.

'Hmm.'

A soft 'clink' could be heard as the man set his teacup down.

'A small "thank you" wouldn't go amiss, brother dear.'

* * *

'Good job, Johnny boy~!'

He beamed at the praise.

'But –!'

* * *

Properly dressed and freshened up, he looks at himself in a large mirror set in the wall.

'I need you to give this matter your full attention.'

He checked if his shirt is tucked into his trousers properly, wiping away invisible dust.

'Is that quite clear?'

'I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft.'

* * *

'But!' He sighed, 'There are limits to how big of a mess you can leave behind!'

He looked down, body slightly quivering and shaking.

Moriarty won't be surprised if tears are forming in those greyish blue eyes.

He let out an even louder sigh, and rubbed his temples.

The world's only criminal consultant is feeling guilty about giving a much needed scolding.

He need to buy another carton of jam now.

Or perhaps a dozen more?

* * *

'And what about John Watson?'

He hesitated.

_Cautious._

'John?'

A pause, although short it might, the asker was immediately on alert.

'Mmm. Have you seen him?'

Mycroft and his attendant shared a look.

'I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted!'

'I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake.'

'Baker Street? He isn't there anymore.'

'Hmm?'

He clears his throat, 'About John –'

* * *

' – As I have mentioned before, getting blood on you sweater isn't a good idea. The enemies might be able to trace it back you.'

_Blood is difficult to wash off, and you won't let me throw them away._

'Wearing a sweater is a bad idea as well, what it snagged on something and a thread came off?'

_Then maybe you'll wear something else! ...That is not a sweater._

The shorter male nodded at him, but of course, as usual, his advice went unheeded.

'Alright, then let us practise again,' he point at the human tied to the opposite wall with a single chain, struggling and swearing at them, 'It's alright Mister Victim. As I promised, if you can reach the door before you are brutally murdered, you are free to go~'

The gagged man screamed (or tried to) something unintelligible.

'Ready John?'

He answered with a curt nod, his hands tugging at the sleeves of his sweater.

'Then let us begin,' the chain snapped off from the wall, 'Start!'

* * *

He was awfully quiet, quieting taking in the information. Silently listening the raise and fall of his voice, eyes looking for any deceit.

Mycroft straightened his jacket, 'And that is all I have.'

He kept quiet for a moment, seemingly digesting the information, word for word, before breaking out into a grin, 'The British government himself could only find such vague information? How dull, I get them myself. This seems like a rather interesting challenge.'

He stood up, heading towards the door. Mycroft's attendant immediately appears in the open doorway holding his coat. With a small smile with delight, he slides his arms into the sleeves as she lifts it into position.

'Welcome back, Mr Holmes.'

He quickly tied his scarf, 'Thank you.'

He turns to face his brother, 'Blud.*'

And with his coat billowing after him, he was off.

Mycroft paused, 'Welcome back home, Sherlock.'

Softly, but he knows his brother heard him.

* * *

He stood on the ledge of a certain rooftop, of a certain hospital, overlooking his city.

'I am home.'

* * *

Notes:

* Taken from the script itself, no offence to anyone!

* * *

Postscript

Look who's back~!

Hello again! I hope that you have enjoyed yourself!

I guess it's bimonthly now huh? The updates, I meant, please don't be angry!

Hope to see you soon, and have a nice day~!


	4. Chapter 4 - Mote

Mote (mōt) _– noun._ A very small particle; a speck.

* * *

_Pit-a-pat pit-a-pat_

He froze, hand awkwardly held up, a few steps away from his car.

_Pit-a-pat pit-a-pat _

'What is it this time?' He shouted cautiously into the darkness of the carpark, 'If it's Gabriel, I believe I said that there isn't any extension to that report, finish it by tonight!'

He squint at the silhouette at the far end of the carpark, something about it seems familiar, almost like...

'After all this years, Lestrade. Is this how you greet a–'

'Sherlock?!'

_One down._

* * *

'Sherlock!' Molly dashed towards him, 'You're back!'

'Yes, He replied, 'Great observation.'

'Umm… I… S-so how was your... Uhh…Vacation?'

'Same as usual.'

'Ohh,' She look at her empty mug, 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'No, I don't have much time.'

'I see,' She smiled at him, sincere and sad, 'I'm glad to see you back.'

_I'm happy to see you too._

* * *

'Stop.'

The taxi pulled to a halt.

'Sir?'

'You heard me, stop.' He pulled out a wad of cash, and shoved it at the driver, 'Keep the change.'

Sherlock watch the taxi drove away, disappearing into the distant. He breathed in the cool night air, still quite a distance away from his lodging, and started the quiet walk back.

Today is bingo night, Mrs Hudson won't be back till 11 o' clock sharp.

Did he expect anything when he came back?

John.

_John._

John welcoming him with open arms? Not likely. A punch to the face (or the kidney)? A possible (and likely) reaction. He could almost imagine the shock and recognition lighting up those bluish-grey eyes, then disbelief and anger following soon after.

Sherlock would like that to happen.

_It's much better than this._

After all a punch or two, John will belatedly inform him that he has cleared out the fridge some time ago, and had thrown out all its content. _'Your room is untouched though, I– we decided that we should keep it as it is.' He might add, 'In case you ever came back.'_

Did John believe he will come back? Or did he move on, before he disappeared (before he died)?

'_Do you know what time it is?' John might asked, as if the two years that has passed never happened, _

'_Have you eaten?' That wasn't a question, 'Chinese?'_

Sherlock paused at the familiar entrance to 221B.

_What did you expect, Sherlock?_

He slid his key into the keyhole.

_Someone to greet him at the door._

He gingerly turned the doorknob.

_What did you expect?_

He open the door quietly.

'_I'm glad you're back, Sherlock.'_

The dust motes floated around in the empty house, quietly mocking him.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Have a great day~!


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